Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me.
A/N: Thanks to Silvereyedbitch, she is essential to my process. I can't do this without her.
Apologies for the excessive wait. Real life is a bitch. Hope you all enjoy!
WARNING: Sex, blood, crime scenes.
Read, enjoy, review!
Chapter 62
"Raising the Devil"
18 Years Ago
The North Sea
"Jimmy, what is it?" Jaime hissed loudly, clutching to the rocks. They were dangerous, and Jim sent his sister a glare as she made to join him.
"Jaime, I swear I will lock you in a closet for the rest of your life if you don't stay back!" Jim shouted, a wave crashing around his lower legs as he navigated the black rocks. They were slippery, and if he was having trouble staying upright on the slick rocks, then his little sister would have an even harder time than he.
He heard Jaime grumble, but she sat back down, above him where the cliff side trail met the hidden dock nestled at the base of the smuggler's cove. There was something in the black water, something that drew his gaze. The night sky above was brighter than the water below, and his hands and feet were numb from the cold. The object was large, and bobbed with the currents. A wave rolled in, and just as Jim was reaching for whatever it was, it was neatly lifted and deposited at his feet, as if by Fate.
Jim grabbed the man's collar, immediately recognizing the form for what it was, what he was, and yanked hard. Another wave came and helped him, his thirteen year old body whip-thin and lean, not yet muscled enough to manage pulling the large man from the water on his own.
Small, nimble hands clamped down on the sodden cloth next to his own, and Jim glared as his little sister pulled with him, the two of them managing to get the man free from the waves. She gave him a cheeky grin, and stepped back from the man's body as Jim rolled him to his back. She went back to peering at the end of the dock, the bigger man making her nervous, even disabled.
A knife was embedded in his upper chest, and Jim's mind instantly cataloged the injuries. The man had been stabbed, the blade perfectly positioned to cut the subclavian vein under the clavicle, missing the artery. It would have bled copious amounts anyway, as evidenced by the stains that even the saltwater could not erase.
The blade looked expensive, and Jim reached out for it, fingers closing around the hilt, intending to pull it out. It would help pay their way to Amsterdam. The stranger's clothing was finely made and appeared designer, haute couture and tailored to fit him. The wristwatch and cuff links were gold and silver, and the tie clip had a diamond winking in the destroyed silk. This man was wealthy, and Jim was glad for it, since whatever the dead man had on him Jim was planning to take.
A hand, skin white and cold, with powerful fingers, snapped closed around his wrist, and Jim froze, lifting his eyes. His gaze met that of the man's, still alive, water glistening on his fair skin, dripping from his sodden black hair. Water ran from his mouth as his head turned to the side, and the moonlight lit upon his eyes, allowing Jim to see their amethyst glow. He'd never seen a pair of eyes so bright, so clear, so distinct and blazingly unique. The man coughed, water escaping his mouth, and his eyes closed briefly.
Jim's fingertips brushed over the handsome brow of the injured man, and his eyes slowly opened, the jewel-tone orbs finding his again. Jim shivered, not from the cold or frigid waters, but from the way the man seemed to see deeply into his mind, discerning his thoughts. There was intelligence there, a fire that burned brightly, calling to the banked embers in Jim's soul.
"Jimmy! The boat is coming!" Jaime called, and Jim looked up to see his little sister standing on the end of the dock, waving to the approaching boat that was barely visible in the darkness, running lights out.
Their ride to Amsterdam, their escape from the UK was here, and yet Jim could barely make himself care. He heard the boat cut its engines as it coasted to the dock, Jaime's piping voice greeting the men who jumped free. He heard all of this but saw none of it, his mind and eyes arrested by the stranger by which he knelt. That hand was still wrapped around his wrist, and beautiful violet eyes held his own captive.
"Going to Amsterdam as well, my dear boy?" the man gasped, voice low and gravelly, stirring Jim's nerves, his blood heating. He nodded, and the man smiled, an expression that left Jim breathless.
"Good….seems I made my boat after all. So much for interfering little brothers…."
Mycroft's Townhouse—London
Violet stared hard at the glittering obsidian floor of the holographic interface, the generators humming from hidden spots around the room. She ran her fingers over the silver bands on her wrists, and breathed in deeply, searching for the courage to do what she must. She couldn't afford to hide anymore from her past. She knew all about her mother, the type of person she had been before cancer took her. Kind, witty, generous, intelligent and brave.
Violet had always considered her mother brave. And now that she knew exactly what, or rather who her mother was running from all those years before her father died, Violet was never more proud to be the daughter of Evangeline Hunter.
Now she needed to know about her father. She was the daughter of two people, and half of herself was still unknown.
"Access files under Holmes, Sherrinford," Violet spoke loudly enough for the mics to pick up her instructions, lifting her head and staring into the shadows.
"Vocal patterns identified for Hunter, Violet. Password required for restricted files," intoned a sterile robotic voice, coming out of nowhere from all around her, the bunker echoing. For some reason the voice reminded her of Sherlock, and she shivered.
"Password for restricted files is Brother Mine."
A roll of thunder pealed through the room, and lights spawned in the shadows. Lasers sought out and landed on her wrists, and Violet raised her hands, the lights following.
"Files for Holmes, Sherrinford accessed," replied the computer, and Violet took another breath, holding it, and strove for courage.
"Display all files," she whispered, and the truth bloomed in bright, colorful images in the dark, throwing light over the floor and across her body.
The face that rose from the darkness matched the man from her dreams. He was clearer, more defined, the hard planes of his face and the inky black waves of his hair so realistic she lifted her hand to touch his cheek. Her fingers fell through the lights, and she felt nothing, but a chill settled in her bones. She pulled back her hands, and hugged herself, her bravado rapidly fleeing.
"Father," she gasped, and tears came unbidden. She cried, as files opened, one after another, and videos played, all hanging in the air several feet off the floor.
Violet raised shaking hands, and stepped around the profile picture of her father. His eyes, her eyes, glowed with a vibrancy that disturbed her more than anything she had ever experienced in her varied life. He seemed to track her, hollow eyes that followed her movements as she spun file after file out of the shadows.
His voice.
She heard his voice, and it nearly destroyed her.
It was merely an idle conversation over the phone with Mycroft, discussing something banal and she struggled to hear the actual words, but the mere sound of her father's rich, deep voice made her whimper, happiness and grief tearing her in two. The audio file ended, and she watched a soundless video of her father taken at a distance, walking down a street in summer, hair fluttering in the breeze. The camera zoomed in, the person filming moving through a crowd, managing to get in front of him by several yards, focusing. His features sprang into crystal-clear definition, and she felt her whole body shake in response. He looked young, and there was a charisma about him that reminded her so strongly of the way Sherlock moved that she had to see his eyes to prove that it was indeed Sherrinford and not her uncle on the video. He was graceful without being effeminate, masculine raw beauty and power. He moved as if he were dancing, every step planned and measured, no extra effort wasted in an economy of movement that she envied even as she despaired at his perfection. The video was short, and looped, and she had to force herself to look away lest she watch it forever.
She saw the blood first. It stood out, a crimson swath that colored everything around it. The bodies were torn and cut apart, laid out in horrific tableaus. The pictures were crime scene photos, clinical and impersonal, but even then with that degree of separation, the evil, the malice in each cut and laceration oozed from the pictures, falling on her shoulders and hands. She felt it all, a creeping evil that made her shudder.
Body after body, picture after picture. Proof of her heritage, of the reality of her father. The man who had loved her as a baby was a monster, an evil straight from the depths of hell, and the love she still harbored in her heart for him in return threatened to break her under its weight.
Violet didn't realize she was screaming, tears running down her cheeks, until Mycroft's hand fell to her shoulder, and her forehead dropped to rest on his chest. She quieted, sobbing softly, biting back her cries of denial. She had known in her head that her father was a killer, but to see the proof of it, the actual aftermath of his bloodlust, was enough to break through the hardened shell of the armor she carried and leave her raw and bleeding.
"You lasted longer than I thought you would," he murmured, and there was a soft click, and the lights fell. Violet collapsed into her uncle's arms, crying, horrified, unable to lose the images running behind her eyelids.
Sherrinford's Townhouse
The Next Morning
Sherrinford opened his eyes to nothing. No light, no glimmer or hint of anything except unrelenting black. He could have been cast off in the abyss if not for the warmth of the body next to him and a lean arm wrapped around his waist.
James may cry and whine and pout, as spoiled as any sociopath could ever be, but when the darkness crept into the places they dwelled, and exhaustion took him over, the younger man invariably ended up plastered to Sherrin's side or back. Sherrin blinked the sleep out of his eyes and turned his head, able to see a faint glow of steel gray light through the bed curtains. Dawn was coming, and soon.
James' part in their plans would happen any moment, setting off a chain of events that would occupy and divide their opponents further, until both Mycroft and Sherlock were exactly where they wanted them to be. Steps from retribution, and then dead.
He reached out with his free arm, and swept the curtains open a sliver with the back of his hand, and saw the light of a new dawn seeping past the heavy drapes that adorned the tall windows in his master suite. It shared the same level of the house as his studio, no wall between him and his artwork, the bed tucked away in a dark recessed corner. He could see the pedestal where Cassandra was returning to life in perfect, unblemished glory.
His studio was guest-free for the moment, until he went out again tonight to find his final muse. Then to begin his work, fueled by visions of smooth skin, generous smiles, and luscious youth reduced to bleeding, raw flesh. As he carved them into the wood, his muses would reign over his studio in stately displays, for him to touch and feel and adore, each one coming to life in new ways.
Sherrin looked at the young man sleeping on his shoulder, James' face unlined and carefree in sleep, appearing wholly innocent. It was deceptive, the peace that came with slumber, and Sherrin wasn't fooled by the lack of malice present on his lover's features. James Moriarty was a dangerous man, his flights of genius matched by a capriciousness that left colleagues and foes on edge. It took a strong hand and a stronger will to bend James enough to follow another's lead, and Sherrin was no stranger to managing the last son of the Moriarty clan. He'd been doing it since the day they'd met, nearly twenty years before.
He slid slowly from the bed, and James moved in his slumber to the warm spot he'd been laying, burying his face in his pillow. Naked, he padded over the thick rug, swiping his mobile from the desk as he went to the window. Six fifty-seven AM. Three minutes left until it began. Sherrin opened the drape just enough to look out over the rooftops, towards the heart of London, and waited.
A chime went off, loud in the heavy quiet of the bedroom, and Sherrin let the drape fall closed as he returned to the bed. It sang in his hand, and James stirred as he got closer. One eye opened, dark and sleepy, and latched on to the mobile alerting in Sherrin's grip. He tapped the icon and the alarm went silent, and James grinned drowsily as he rolled to his back.
"Couldn't wake me for the show?" James asked, voice rough from sleep and their late night activities. Sherrin had kept James awake well into the early morning hours, taking him again and again. James was a screamer and held nothing back when reduced to his base passions. Sherrin hadn't been able to resist the urge to tame him, taking him harder each time.
"Can't see anything from here. Buildings are too tall. But I'm sure we'll hear the sirens soon." Sherrinford slipped back into bed, James immediately returning to his side, wrapping his warm, smooth and naked body around his much cooler frame. "Careful, my dear boy, or we'll be late."
"Then you shouldn't have gotten back in bed without clothes on," James whispered, disappearing under the covers, hands following his hot little mouth as he bit and nibbled his way down Sherrin's abdomen.
Sherrin lifted his arms and put his hands behind his head on the pillow, sighing in pleasure as James' hand braced his hips, and his wet mouth sucked Sherrin's semi hard cock nearly to the back of his throat. He hardened to full arousal fast, and thrust up just as James sucked Sherrin down to the root of his cock, throat muscles swallowing around the swollen head. James coughed, and the hand Sherrin buried in his hair encouraged him to keep going.
He closed his eyes, basking in the wet, hot suction, hips lifting just a bit off the mattress in a steady rhythm, sliding his hard cock past the lips stretched wide around him. He was too tired to fuck the other man's mouth, having taken James repeatedly in the night, so he enjoyed the slow, languorous blowjob. James hummed as he sucked, throat working around the crown, tongue massaging the thick vein underneath. He had such a clever mouth on him.
He was nearing his climax when the first wail of emergency responders could be heard past the curtains. He brushed the blankets off of James, lifting his head and watching as the younger man swallowed his release. His eyes were closed as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful, and Sherrin felt his hips jerk and a wet heat flow against his leg as the master criminal came hard. Sherrin dropped his head, vision blurring, breathing hard, slowly relaxing his fingers in the long brown hair under his hand. James rested his head on his hip, panting, and they both were trying to find their faculties when the sirens grew louder, blasting past the townhouse.
James began to laugh, softly, his body shaking a few times before the peal of his laugh flew free from his mouth. He collapsed on his back on the soft bed, staring up at the ceiling, holding his stomach, laughing so hard he was crying. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he was gasping for air, his laughter on the razor's edge of madness and glee. Sherrin smiled indulgently, and carefully extricated his legs from the blankets, getting out of bed. He left the younger man a hysterical mess on his bed, heading for the shower, James' laughter subsiding to devilish giggles.
The same morning… Ten Minutes Prior
Ministry Of Justice, Westminster
"Good job in there, Boss. I don't think they'll be breathing fresh air for the next few decades," Sally Donovan cheered as she slapped his shoulder, both of them exiting the Ministry of Justice off of Perry France Broadway. They'd gone in that morning early to give closed testimony on a case they'd finished several months prior over the summer, and Greg was glad he was well enough to do his job and keep the bank-robbing bastards behind bars. It was very early, and most people were just now arriving at the Ministry as they were leaving.
It was a busy morning, dozens of people on the street, black cabs descending in swarms along the sidewalk, disembarking passengers filling the curb. There were reporters everywhere, not making things any easier, the Mallory Family bank-robbers a huge draw to the vultures and their deadlines. Greg and Sally dodged a camera crew, thankful the crowds outside the building were chaotic enough that the reporters didn't catch a glimpse of them as they headed for Mycroft's car. It was pulling up to the curb, and Greg hopped down to the street and opened the door before the driver could try and get out on the busy street.
He held the door open, grabbing Mycroft's long coat aside in his free hand so he could slide in easier. He still hadn't returned his lover's coat, and considering how good it made him look, he probably wouldn't. Sally was on the other side of the door, one of her hands on his to stop him, a smile on her lovely face. He was looking right at her when the explosion rent the air, a fireball that screamed with the voices of a thousand enraged furies. It bloomed like a tiger lily, deep oranges and lines of black, thick smoke unfurling and flames reaching out to lick across the pavement.
Beautiful death reached out, and slapped at Donovan, throwing her against the car door, before it rolled over the top of him, slamming him to the ice cold pavement with unforgiving force. A sound tore through the street, a storm of high-pitched shrieking, the tearing of metal and the shattering of glass a cacophony so horrendous it could have come from the throats of a flight of dragons.
He woke up, head ringing, ears deafened, blood dripping in his eyes.
"Sir! Can you hear me? DI Lestrade, can you hear me?"
Greg gazed up, blinking slowly, and tried to focus on the face of the man above him. His ears were behaving oddly, popping in and out, the words muffled and alternately clear. He was hot, but portions of him were freezing, his back and hips numbing from the chill.
"What?" Greg coughed, and that started a chain reaction, his whole body convulsing as his muscles came back to life. Sounds were louder, the air colder, the scents of fire and ozone and blood smothering. Greg rolled to his side, then pulled up his knees, hands flat on the glass-strewn pavement as an incessant ringing fired off between his ears.
"Oh God, what the hell happened?" Greg groaned, finally managing to sit back on his heels, hands coming to his chest and side. He felt like a ton of bricks decided to barrel into him, knocking him on his ass.
"Sir, you shouldn't be moving, you could have injuries…." The man at his side said, hands trying to push him back down. Greg looked up, and recognized one of Mycroft's guards, blood running from the side of his face, the hair at his temple soaked and glistening.
"I think you're worse off mate, sit down," Greg wheezed and slowly stood, and pushed his hands down on the guard's shoulders, making him fall to his ass next to the car.
Smoke trailed over the street, great swaths of it obscuring his vision, the winter wind pulling thick trails of it over the bodies that littered the curb and sidewalk. There was an eerie silence that echoed through the tall buildings, faint cries and the hiss of burning debris strangely intimate in the battlefield of the street. Greg gagged, coughing into his hand, and stumbled away from the car.
When he saw her, she didn't look like Sally Donovan. His sergeant was collapsed on the other side of the car door, which had a huge dent in it, as if a giant fist had punched it. The window wasn't shattered, just broken in a spider web of lines, which struck Greg as odd until he realized that this was Mycroft's car, and of course his car could survive a bomb blast.
His brain wasn't working right, and he thought he was worrying about the wrong things, he must be, since his sergeant was bleeding to death in front of him and his heart and mind weren't seeing just how horrible that was, at least not yet.
He dragged in a smoke-laced breath of air, and it clicked. Reality returned on a rush of sound, the tidal wave pushing him to finally react.
Greg looked down at the crumpled body, his brain screaming as his body moved, rushing to her side. He put a hand on her ribs, over her coat, and the dark material squished under the slight pressure. He pulled away his hand, and turned over his palm.
Blood, dark and thick covered his hand. It dripped from his fingers, and fell with loud splats to the ground.
Greg didn't move from her side, his body shutting down at last. He fell over just as paramedics swarmed the scene, and men in emergency gear began calling to him.
Greg let go, the black rising around the edges of his vision, and his last thought before falling unconscious was that Mycroft was going to be very upset.
Baker Street
Same Morning
Sherlock moaned, and rolled over, burying his face in the pillows as John opened the curtains. Warm light fell over his back and legs, but Sherlock was too tired to appreciate the cheerful ambiance of the morning. A chime sounded from the nightstand, and Sherlock determinedly buried his nose deeper in John's pillow, refusing to check his mobile.
He heard John walk across the floor barefoot, and the shuffling of items as the doctor presumably checked their phones. The odd beeps and clicks told Sherlock that it was his mobile and not John's that had sounded off, and Sherlock found himself prying his head off the pillow and flopping over on his side.
"You awake, love?" John smiled as him as he spoke, and Sherlock got caught up in the sincere affection in that one glance. John seemed tense, his eyes dark and worried, but Sherlock saw the love in there too. Whatever he saw in the text alert must have been bad.
"No, I'm clearly still sleeping. This is a nightmare, where my lover insists on waking me before luncheon every morning and going about as if he's actually leaving for work," Sherlock mumbled as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. If John wanted to avoid the bad news, he would oblige. Sherlock was good at ignoring things he didn't want to deal with.
John chuckled, not at all upset, and tossed Sherlock's mobile gently onto his lap. "I'm not going to work today. Neither are you, actually."
"What? Work? I don't work, I solve cases other people are too idiotic to unravel," Sherlock picked up his mobile and peered at the screen.
Bombing at Ministry of Justice. Roads are shut down, London is under high alert. I'm with Mycroft, travel restricted to emergency personnel only. Stay home. –VH
Sherlock blinked himself fully awake, pondered, then replied.
Am I needed? –SH
A heartbeat, then his niece replied.
I already asked Mycroft if he needed you. Said it's not in your milieu, whatever the fuck that means. I'm guessing terrorism, straight up sleeper cell shit. –VH
Occasionally Sherlock was reminded that his niece, while entirely British by blood and birth, was raised as an American, and her upbringing was never more prevalent than in times of stress. Her language, while entirely irrelevant to him, was irregular enough to warrant a small smile.
Good. I'm going back to sleep. Avoid further bombings. –SH
I'll do my best. Enjoy your lie-in. –VH
Sherlock was about to throw away the mobile when she sent another text.
Get over your squabble with Mycroft. He made me check with John that you were both at home and safe. I love you. –VH
Not finding a suitable reply and knowing his niece would ignore him if he sent anything pithy, Sherlock tossed his mobile back on the nightstand. John was coming out of the bathroom, freshly washed and dressed.
"I'm watching the telly for news on what's happening. I texted Lestrade, but I got nothing in reply, I'm guessing he's busy with the Ministry bombing. Go back to sleep, love, I'll wake you when breakfast is ready," John said calmly, belying the shadows in his deep blue eyes. The soldier was there, haunting the evening-sky eyes of his lover, and Sherlock sighed.
"Already awake. Do we have any milk?" Sherlock tossed back the covers and stumbled into the bathroom, reconciling himself to being awake at the god-awful time of 0730 in the morning.
Downtown London
Mycroft's Townhouse and Car—St Bart's
"Sir, his guards say he's alright," the aide yelped as Mycroft barreled past him, Violet on her uncle's heels. Breakfast was over.
"He was just in an explosion, you idiot, he's not 'alright!'" Mycroft yelled back, and the aides in his way scampered in every direction.
Violet rolled her eyes, and followed her uncle, who was shouting orders and asking questions that none of the aides could answer.
There had just been a bombing at the Ministry of Justice, and instead of her uncle, the one man in the entire country who should be getting per the second updates about what was happening, getting fed that information, he was left adrift, and yelling at aides.
Violet missed Anthea with a violent pang, and she knew in that second what she should do. She could almost feel Anthea standing at her shoulder, whispering in her ear, a delicate hand resting on her back. Violet ached, a fierce throb in her gut, as the scent of fruit and lilac rose around her in the foyer. She shook her head, dispelling the ghosts, and made a choice.
Violet pulled out her cell, never gladder in this moment that she carried her toys everywhere she went. Mycroft was in fine form, shouting orders to aides who looked frazzled and at a loss, and none of them were giving him what he needed to know. His car wasn't even ready yet, and they needed to go.
Violet let herself in directly to MI6, her cell seamlessly blending with the information she needed. She had backdoors written into the code for all the UK's major government entities, and some were even legit, seeing as how she gave Mycroft the Kingdom Key for Christmas.
"Mycroft!" she shouted, and everyone shut up, frozen, staring at her. Mycroft spun to her, seething, seconds from snapping.
"Greg is at St Bart's, got there two minutes ago. Unconscious, but no major injuries. The bombs—there were four of them—went off at exactly 0700 hours. Main devices were anti-personnel VIEDs and IEDs filled with ball bearing and glass beads. Over a hundred casualties, as of this moment there are ten dead on scene. No suspects as of yet identified," Violet tapped on her screen and nodded to the front door behind her uncle. "The car is ready now, let's go."
She walked past the useless aides, and grabbed Mycroft's arm as she passed him, tugging him out the door. He followed for a second, and he appeared shocked, eyeing her like he'd never seen her before.
She pushed him into the car, and as the door shut, she leaned forward, speaking to the driver.
"St Bart's. Now." The driver nodded, the Jaguar pulled away from the townhouse, two escort cars in front and back.
Mycroft was still staring, but she was too busy to care. She tapped at her cell, and started to sort through the information on the screen.
"I've raised the terror alert level. The royals and PM are on lock down. The airports, train stations, bus and taxi centers have all been notified. Heathrow is shut down 'til authorities have cleared it. I've dispatched city authorities to search and clear all high-priority targets. London is on lockdown until you lift it, all traffic restricted to emergency personnel. So far all terrorist communications are being monitored and suspected members of terrorist organizations are going through a headcount, and contacts from the last seventy hours are being combed for clues," Violet recited, and sat back, taking a breath.
"All upper level members of MI6 and other ministry officials are being notified…right now," she murmured, and flipped through her screens, tapping here and there, sifting through the data streaming by at high speeds. "I've ordered a thorough review of all CCTV feeds from the last forty-eight hours outside the Ministry of Justice. And…. The Prime Minister will be making a public address later this evening, but will wait until he hears from you."
Silence.
Violet took a deep breath, and looked up at the man sitting quietly beside her. Gone was the angry and frantic lover, the government man frustrated by lack of information. She saw only her uncle, who was watching her with an expression she had never seen on his face before.
There was pride in his eyes, with a vulnerable edge to it that she felt as well. There was a ghost in the car with them, of a woman recently departed. Violet could smell the hints of perfume, and held her breath. It faded, and she could breathe again.
She quirked a brow at him, and went back to her cell, syncing it to her uncle's. His mobile chimed in his coat pocket, and he moved carefully as if he might break, pulling it out. She sent him organized and structured data bursts, and together, as the cars wove through London towards the hospital, they worked together, not a word spoken.
St Bart's Hospital
Emergency
0800 AM
"Sally Donovan, Sergeant, Metropolitan Police Service at NYS. Admitted ten minutes ago… She's two stations down!" the nurse called out as Greg took off down the hall, Mycroft's guard at his elbow yelling at him to stop. He dodged patients and medical staff, the hospital a beehive of activity. St Bart's had received the bulk of the victims from the bombing site, and Sally was in here somewhere. He'd woken up a few minutes before, a doctor shining a bright light in his eyes and asking stupid questions about how he was feeling. He was just in the middle of an explosion, he was feeling wonderful.
Greg ignored the pain in his head and the ache in his body and skidded to a stop just as Sally was wheeled out of a cubicle on a gurney in front of him. She was surrounded by doctors and people in scrubs, and she was stripped, covered in blood-soaked bandages and connected to tubes and fluid bags. Greg grabbed the arm of a scrub-clad nurse, who was gloved and covered in blood.
"She's my sergeant, what's wrong with her?" Greg snarled, pulling the male nurse in close, inches separating them. The younger man quailed and swallowed hard, face blanching. "Is she going to be okay?"
"She…. She has several pieces of shrapnel embedded in her side and back. She's being taken to surgery now. She needs some transfusions, but she is currently stable, sir," the nurse stammered, and Greg threw him away, making the man stumble and flee.
"DI Lestrade, please come back to your room," the bodyguard asked again, hesitating to touch his arm, afraid of finding himself laid out on the floor.
Greg put a hand to his head, and sighed. He wanted to stay here, and wait, but the place was overflowing with the wounded, and he was in the way. A hand landed on his shoulder, and Greg whirled, ready to tell off the bodyguard.
"Gregory," Mycroft said his name, gently, and Greg sucked in a deep breath, ribs aching, ready to fall over.
"Mycroft," Greg exhaled, and he flung himself into his lover's arms. Greg clung to Mycroft, and let himself finally stop being strong.
"I've got you," Mycroft whispered, and hands rubbed over his shoulders and back, soothing. "Come with me Gregory. Come with me now."
Greg let himself be led away, and through the emergency ward to a quieter part of the hospital. He found himself sitting on a bed, and female doctor cleaning his face and helping him out of his shirt. His clothes were full of metal bits and pieces, and small shards of glass. No wonder he was so uncomfortable. Mycroft stayed within arm's reach, speaking softly to someone. Greg blinked, his thoughts slowly working themselves back into some kind of order.
"Violet?"
"Hey bud," she said, giving him a small smile. She was dressed in the same clothes as the day before, and Greg remembered Mycroft telling him that she was spending the night. Her clothes were freshly pressed and she looked rested, but for a haunted look in her lovely eyes.
"You okay, sweetheart?" he asked, wincing as the doctor used a pair of tweezers to pull glass out of his hairline.
"Am I okay? Fuck, Greg, you were just blown up," she said, clicking away on her mobile. She gave him a bigger smile, a quick one, and went back to her phone. "I think between the two of us you're winning in the bad day category."
"That I am….What the fuck happened?" Greg asked, looking directly at his lover. Mycroft was holding his hand, the room they were in closed off, the curtains pulled shut. The ubiquitous aides were absent, and yet Mycroft was one of the few people in the country who shouldn't be kept in the dark about what was happening in the city at the moment. Greg felt adrift, and looked back at Violet, feeling a nauseating sense of déjà vu just laying eyes on her.
Another woman used to behave like that. Used to be so focused on her mobile that the rest of the world fell away, and she would look up with knowing eyes and a dry wit, thinking the world was full of fools and only a few were worth the fuss.
"Got a new job?" Greg asked wryly, and Violet met his eyes for a second before the amethyst orbs lit on her uncle.
"I think this addition to MI6 shall remain unnoted by my peers, Gregory," Mycroft said, looking at the doctor still poking about in Greg's hair.
"X-rays and a new set of clothing. I'm going to suggest a shower as soon as possible so you get all the glass shards off of you," the doctor said, picking up on the undercurrents in the room and putting down her tools. "You don't need stitches, but you may have a mild concussion. I'll get you some pain meds. Be right back."
"I've texted Molly, she said you can use the showers off the autopsy lab. I have an aide bringing you a change of clothes as we speak, should be here once you've washed off." Violet told him, and she slipped from the room on the doctor's heels, shutting the door firmly behind her.
"Mycroft…" Greg started to say, but his lover's mouth landed on his and he found himself pulled off the bed and into Mycroft's arms. Mycroft kissed him deeply with an urgency that left him breathless, hands framing his face, holding him still, and Greg groaned, opening his mouth to the sensual assault.
"I can put you under guard…." Mycroft whispered before his lips took his again, nipping and licking, "I can have you followed and shadowed by the best in the business…" Mycroft's teeth nipped at his jaw, and laving the spot with his tongue, "I can know where you are at all times and where the safest place is for you to be…." Hands tugged on Greg's shirt and long hot fingers traveled underneath, caressing his sides, "but with all that I can do, I can't stop you from walking into the middle of a bloody bombing."
Mycroft was attacking him with mouth and hands, pushing his ass back on the edge of the bed, knees knocking his legs apart and stepping in between. Greg submitted, opening himself up to his lover, Mycroft's need so urgent he couldn't find the ambition to resist.
"Darling….." Greg tilted his head back, as Mycroft tugged at his shirt, opening his collar, "Darling, we're in the middle of the hospital…"
"No one is going to come in here….. I want to taste you…" Mycroft said huskily, and when his lover dropped to his knees on the tile floor, Greg nearly swallowed his tongue, "need to taste you. Mine, Gregory….say it…"
"I'm yours, all yours darling…" Greg gasped as his zipper was carefully opened by skillful fingers, which slipped inside the folds and under his boxers.
I should get blown up more often…..
Baker Street
Morning
"Bombings in London," John muttered, holding the remote and flicking through channels, the same thing on every one of them.
He stopped on BBC, and watched the footage from the CCTV cameras. Someone had leaked the footage to the press, and this was the millionth time that morning that John had watched as the bombs exploded. Four bombs, along the street in front of the Ministry, going off within nanoseconds of each other, the flashes and concussive waves so fast that John saw the aftermath of them more than the actual explosions.
John sent a glance to the right, his eyes wandering over his lover's long frame, slouched decadently in his leather chair. Sherlock was reading a case file, tossing out random pieces of paper from the folder that he deemed worthless. There was already a large, scattered collection of white paper littering the floor around his chair, making it appear a windstorm had blown through their flat. He watched, biting his lip so as not to laugh, as Sherlock gave a faint flicker of his brow and tossed another piece of paper over his shoulder, mumbling about inept crime scene technicians.
John smiled, despite the gloomy news, and found himself sucked back into the news cycle, the bombs exploding over and over. He really hoped that Mycroft figured out what happened and who was responsible, and stopped more attacks before they happened. Part of him was surprised that the bombings that morning even happened, especially after Violet's gift to Mycroft for Christmas. She'd told them about the Key not long after she'd given it to her uncle, and John was still feeling uneasy thinking about the insane level of knowledge Violet had access to. Access that she'd then given to Mycroft.
The news started to repeat again, and John grew tired of watching. It was too similar to another cold day a few years prior, with a madman setting off bombs to entice Sherlock into playing his Game…..
"Sherlock?" John said softly, rolling his head on the seatback to look at his lover. Sherlock was still reading, one bare foot rotating on the other where his ankles were crossed, the detective stretched out in an extreme slouch.
"Hhhmmm?" Sherlock kept on reading, quicksilver eyes darting over the papers in hand, reading faster than John figured he could think.
"Is Moriarty really alive?" It just came out; John sat frozen as his own words brought the reality of Sherlock's and Violet's epiphanies to light. It was just over two weeks since Mary and Violet bought the theory of James Moriarty's possible survival to light, and John had been happy to not think of the madman still being out there, enjoying the comfort of denial. The morning's bombing was making it hard not to think about, and John needed to voice his worry aloud.
"Yes, he is," Sherlock answered, serene and without emotion. His face was smooth and unworried, line-free and otherworldly.
"Are you sure?" John asked, dropping the remote after muting the TV.
"He is the one who pulled me from the fire at the clinic the night his sister took you from Mycroft's townhouse," Sherlock stated, tossing another crumpled sheet of paper over his head. It fell to the floor with the faintest of impacts, and skittered to a stop under the curtains.
"You were severely injured, you could be misremembering," John said hopefully.
"I've gone back over it several times—that memory is true. It just took Violet's discovery to jar it free," his detective said, uncrossing his ankles and sitting up, hair falling over his heavenly eyes.
"Shit," John muttered, looking back at the images rushing by over the muted TV screen. "Do you think…?"
"That he is responsible for today's bombing?" Sherlock finished for him. John nodded, and Sherlock peered at him through his curls. "It is possible, but since Mycroft made it clear I'm not to be involved, I can't know for sure. I doubt it though; from what I've seen so far from the news is that its domestic terrorism."
"Did you tell Mycroft?" John leaned toward Sherlock, elbow on his knee, and reached out with his other hand to brush the curls from Sherlock's eyes.
"I sent Violet a text; she will contact me if there's anything I can help with. She needs to be subtle about it, though."
"Why?"
"Violet is now Mycroft's."
"Mycroft's what?" John asked, tracing the smooth, chiseled jawline of his lover. His skin was soft, and unblemished, John's blood heating as he enjoyed the sensation of touching his lover.
"She took Anthea's place. She wouldn't be accessing the information she has as fast as she has been, in his presence, without acting as his personal aide. I'm just surprised it took so long." Sherlock gave John slight smile, and sat back, John's fingers falling from his cheek. "Mycroft won't appreciate her sharing information with me, especially as he hasn't invited me in. So I will wait, and she will send me what she can. Then, when it becomes clear Mycroft can't solve this on his own, he will either come for me himself, or send our niece."
"It's not like you to wait to be invited in," John said, rubbing his fingertips together, missing the feel of Sherlock's skin and warmth. "You usually barge right in to the thick of things."
"It's not, no. But then I have never been at odds with Mycroft to this degree, not even as a young man still at university. I have my own case, regardless," Sherlock stated, and picked up a new file, the pictures he dropped to the floor a depressing mix of blood and gore.
"Aren't you worried about Moriarty?"
"I'm more concerned with what his sister will do, actually. And Jim will come for me, for us, when he's ready."
"Explain that, Sherlock."
"She called him her master. James Moriarty ruled his sister's life to a degree that left her with no free will, and even worse, a steadfast devotion on her part that made her snap and lose all sanity once his everyday presence in her life was gone. His faked death, and subsequent return, will leave her in a place none of us can afford for her to be." Sherlock nibbled on his lip, and John felt his body take notice. His detective was far too handsome for anyone's sanity. "If he hasn't struck by now, he may not come at us directly again. I'll keep an eye out for him, but he's more likely concerned with taming the very wrathful sibling of his."
"I don't blame her for being pissed, seems we'd have that in common," John mused, eyeing his detective sternly.
"Yes, I understand what you're getting at, "Sherlock rolled his eyes, still reading the new file. "The difference between you and the younger Moriarty is that you are saner than she."
"I'd hope so." John quipped, snorting.
"You're still a psychopath, just not as crazy as she," Sherlock intoned, waving an elegant hand near his temple, and John tossed the remote at him. Sherlock caught it easily, never once lifting his eyes from the file, making John smile. "And—I came back for you."
"What?"
"I came back from the dead for you, John. Jim Moriarty was 'dead' just as long as I was, longer now in fact, and hasn't returned to the one person he supposedly loved beyond all others. He never returned to his sister, and that was a betrayal of her devotion and loyalty. If I were Jim Moriarty, I wouldn't go within a hundred miles of my little sister," Sherlock chuckled, and picked up a picture, the glossy surface a brilliant crimson.
"Yeah, no kidding. Jaime Moriarty enraged is not something I ever want to see again," John said, flashing back to the night she destroyed two of her own guards when they attempted to rape him in the ballroom of her childhood home. After she was done, there was nothing left of them but ground up meat.
"So, my dear doctor, to summarize: Yes, James Moriarty is alive. No, I don't know what he's doing or where he is. Yes, we will see him soon, I just don't know how or in what manner. No, I don't think his sister will return to his side and service."
"How do you know? She could forgive him."
"I know because while I apologized to you for my deceit and causing you such grief and pain, James Moriarty will never do the same for his sister. He won't see anything worth apologizing for," Sherlock said, finally meeting John's eyes. "Jim will make the erroneous assumption that he can return to his old life, that nothing is changed, when everything has."
John stared at Sherlock, their eyes locked.
"And John…. I believe that Mary may have something to say about Jim Moriarty making a return to his sister's life. In fact, Miss Morstan may make her rebuttal known at gunpoint."
John breathed through his nerves, the thought of his pregnant ex-fiancée taking on Jim Moriarty enough to terrify him.
A mobile rang, and it was several seconds before John found the energy to move away from Sherlock's sharp gaze. He picked it up and swiped the screen, holding it to his ear.
"Hello?"
"John?"
"Greg, you alright? I tried calling earlier, but I figured with the bombings you would be busy," John asked, sitting up, Sherlock eyeing him intently.
"Yeah, I've been better. I was…sorta in the explosion."
"What? How can you be in an explosion?" John was nearly yelling, and Sherlock's only response to his query was to raise that single brow. "How can you get blown up and be calling me NOW?"
"I—well, I got some bumps and bruises, but…"
"What hospital are you at?" John said, getting to his feet and looking around for his shoes. "We can be there soon, if we can't drive we can walk if you're at Bart's."
"Stop! I'm fine. Banged up, but fine. That's not why I'm calling," Greg said, and John stilled. Something was wrong. "John, we need Sherlock. There's been another victim."
Sherlock must have seen something in his face, as the detective stood in one fluid movement, stripping his robe, heading for the bathroom. The file fell unnoticed to the floor, the bloody pictures arcing out in a neat fan in front of John's feet.
"John, I got the brass to send you two a car, London's still shut down. You have about twenty minutes."
"Where are we going?" John asked as he, too, headed down the hall, and into their bedroom, straight for Sherlock's wardrobe. He opened the doors, and began pulling out a black suit and Sherlock's dark red-wine shirt. Black trousers joined the clothing on the bed, and he went for socks next. Sherlock was in the bathroom cleaning up, water running in the sink.
"Hyde Park," Greg answered, sounding off. John could hear the wind in the background, the subtle hum of traffic and people talking. The DI was outside.
"We could just walk there, you know."
"Brass wants this kept quiet. You two on the streets of London in broad daylight garner too much attention." Greg huffed out a brisk laugh, then spoke again. "You two have legions of fangirls."
John groaned, and threw a pair of socks on the bed just as Sherlock strode in from the bathroom, stark naked and all lean, sexy muscle. His tongue promptly forgot how to work, and Sherlock paused midstride as he noticed John's attention.
John nearly dropped the phone as Sherlock wrapped a long arm around his waist, pulling him roughly to his chest, mouth descending in a scorching, wet, deep kiss that left no part of John's mouth unexplored. John stumbled as Sherlock let him go, a feral grin on his luscious lips, and his detective began to dress, throwing on the suit John had arranged for him. He was about to tell Sherlock he forgot to put on underpants, but the wink Sherlock tossed him let him know Sherlock was well aware he was going commando.
"John!" Greg's tiny voice came out from the phone hanging forgotten in John's slack grip, and he jumped, pulling it back to his ear.
"Sorry, I got distracted."
"From the moaning I just heard, I bet you did."
John rubbed his face, trying not to blush as Sherlock finished getting dressed, both hands working fast to align his suit collar and smooth down the indecently tight silk shirt.
"Car's ETA is fifteen minutes. Get your misbehavior out of the way before it gets there, I can't have Sherlock distracted on this case."
The line went dead, and John nodded, even though the call was over and Greg couldn't see him anyway.
He followed Sherlock out of the bedroom, eyes locked on his lover's pert ass, and it took tripping over his boots for John to remember he shouldn't be walking around London in the middle of winter in just his socks.
Castle Láidreacht
Ireland
Same Day
"My lady?" Clay's whisper carried on the breeze, and Jaime tore her eyes away from the frothing sea swells far out in the distance. The towering battlements of Castle Láidreacht were weathered by centuries of exposure to salt water and wind, yet remained still a formidable fortress, crouching like a dark monster on the cliffs above the sea.
Jaime heard Clay step away from the door and pad across the stone blocks, carefully placing each boot so as not to slip on the ice. He came to her side, and she saw his profile out of the corner of her eye. His hair was longer, not shorn as short as it had been during the autumn. His white and gray scarf fluttered in the sea breeze, one end caught up in the wind.
"Yes, my disciple?"
"Lady Mary wishes for you to come down. She said all your battlement wandering was making her nervous."
Jaime laughed, the sound carried on the currents of frigid air that curved around the castle.
"Nothing makes Mary Morstan nervous, Clay. And if she hears you calling her 'lady' one more time, she just might make you nervous."
"Having a pregnant assassin in the castle makes me nervous already. Can't get more unsettled than that."
Jaime backed away from the battlements, and entered through the stone doorway. Clay was on her heels, and together they descended into the heart of her home. The name, Láidreacht, meant strength, power, in Irish. She was fluent, thanks to her brother, and when James had bought the castle several years before, he'd asked her what she wanted to call it. He'd smirked, an arrogant slant to his narrow lips, but agreed in the end.
The castle was still Jaime's home, even after two years of living in London, a home she shared now with her lover, Mary Morstan, and her men. Her former guards, and James' mercs, were all coming home. They came by in pairs or alone; Clay vetted them, made sure their allegiances remained to the Moriarty family, to her—then they were given a place in the castle. The old servants' quarters had been revamped decades earlier into guest suites, and that's were her men lived. Not part of the main section of the castle, where Jaime, Mary and Clay lived, but on hand.
Jaime went for the heart of the castle, the courtyard. It was a favorite place of the American assassin; Mary could be found there on a daily basis. The day after their arrival at the castle, with Jaime in bed, sedated and grouchy while recovering from her gunshot wounds and her realization that her brother was alive, Mary had given up trying to keep her calm and in bed, and instead decided that Jaime needed somewhere new to rest, somewhere she wasn't reminded of her brother.
Jaime had awoken at night, in the courtyard, the chill winter air held at bay by the heavy linen and velvet drapes that enclosed the stone gazebo on the upper level of the courtyard. A roaring fire burned in the giant iron brazier in the center, and the large hammock in which she rested was big enough to comfortably hold both women. Jaime had stirred at Clay's entrance, her newly minted disciple dropping stacks of wood in the brazier, the warmth of the flames filling the large space. The smoke rose, and excited through the stone roof, in the chiseled reliefs that let thin shafts of moonlight fall over them.
Mary slept with her, porcelain skin gilded in the silver light, wrapped around Jaime gently. She felt disconnected yet safe, and Jaime saw the IV that ran from her left arm to the clear bag hanging beside the hammock. That night she'd slept easier than she'd had in a very long time, Mary slumbering peacefully beside her, Clay watching over them both.
The retreat Mary had designed for Jaime while she was recovering had been converted into a more stable and enjoyable place to relax, thick furs and rugs covering the stone floor, and heating torches in each corner. With the heating units, the drapes could be pulled back, and a view of the multi-level courtyard could be seen from the hammock. A small table and two chairs were added, and thick robes and blankets awaited use.
It was there that Mary would be this time of day, relaxing and reading a book. Mary was advancing in her pregnancy well, the gentle swell of her abdomen large on the smaller woman. When Mary grew closer to her due date, she was going to be huge. Jaime had been concerned, but the doctor she'd gotten for her lover assured her that Mary was healthy, as was her unborn daughter.
Jaime entered the courtyard, the wind obscured by the high walls, but the deep chill of the shadowed space sinking in her bones. She hurried across the flat lower level, boots ringing on the stones, and climbed the terraces the highest level of the courtyard where the gazebo sat. It was smaller version of a similar structure in one of the parks in London, and James had it built not long after acquiring the castle. Jaime never asked, as back then she was too wrapped up in his will to ever question any of his choices. It wasn't until the later years that Jaime began to use her own voice.
Clay moved ahead of her and opened the heavy curtain that served as the doorway, and the rush of heat on Jaime's cheeks made her face feel tight and flushed. They quickly entered, and Clay let the curtain fall back, sealing them in.
"There you are sweetheart. I was getting worried," Mary smiled at her from the small table, a book open in front of her and a stack of papers with a pen next to it.
"Why were you worried?" Jaime queried, taking off her thick jacket and tossing it to the hammock. Clay stood by the entrance, silent, and doing a fair job of pretending he wasn't there. She leaned down, and gave Mary a small kiss, enjoying her sweet taste before sitting across from her at the little table.
"Sweetheart, you got shot two weeks ago," Mary snorted and shook her head, flipping a page in her book.
"I've been shot before, I heal fast." Jaime peered at the book, curious. "What are you reading?"
"Baby names," Mary replied, tapping the pen on the paper. She looked up, and gave Jaime a brilliant white smile.
"Ahhhh, I see," Jaime replied, and she shrugged. She had her choices, but Mary wasn't ready to pick yet. "Speaking of baby names, your message was delivered to Baker Street. He read it."
"He did?" Mary leaned back in her chair, playing with the pen. "How did he take it?"
Jaime shrugged again, and looked at Clay.
"Captain Watson was deeply affected by the letter and the picture, ma'am." Clay was the one who delivered the letter, and apparently he'd stayed to see how it was received. "He kept it with him after he read it. I have someone watching the flat, so once he replies and puts the answer on the mantelpiece I can get it back here as soon as possible."
Jaime smiled at Mary, and pulled her knife from the thigh sheath. She tugged a whetstone and oiled rag from her back pocket, and began to tend her blade as Mary went back to reading.
"My lady?"
Clay opened the flap just enough for a guard to appear, face hesitant.
"What?" Jaime asked, emotionless. The guard eyed her warily, and handed Clay a tablet. The guard withdrew, and Clay carried it over to the table. He set it down and propped it up, and pressed Play.
BBC One news began playing, the news cycle dominated by bombings in London.
Jaime bit back a smile at the carnage on the screen, played out in Hi-Def and gorgeously destructive. She was enraptured, and returned to tending her blade as she became absorbed by the chaos.
"Clay, find out who was responsible, please," Mary said, jolting Jaime free from her daze. Her mouth felt dry, and her hands were tingling.
"Yes, ma'am. I will be right back," Clay promised before he turned on his heel and slipped from the courtyard den. Mary reached out and paused the footage, and Jaime sighed, returning her focus to the knife. She felt Mary's evaluating gaze on her, but she didn't lift her eyes, afraid to see judgment there. Jaime hadn't bombed London, not this time, but she still enjoyed the sight of her old prison burning.
The vibration of the blade on stone traveled through her fingers, and lulled Jaime into a hazy, peaceful state of mind. She was glad she hadn't thrown the knife off the cliffs, as she was sorely tempted when Mary revealed her brother's deception. There were too many memories, too many days and nights saved and ended by the blade for her to let it go.
Jaime relaxed again, the susurration of the silver and steel over the whetstone a balm to her mind and nerves. She let the images of blood and death and beautiful destruction fade away, and she sat back in her chair, the rhythm of the blade in her hands familiar and hypnotic.
12 Years Ago
Amsterdam
"Thank you, James," Jaime purred, kissing her brother's cheek as she cradled the wicked knife in her hands.
"I just knew you'd love it. I wonder who you'll try it out on first, sister dearest," James grinned, his eyes shining as she flipped the knife, the balance perfect.
"I think I might castrate the Jennings boy down the street. He was handsy the other day." Jaime giggled as the knife soared high, spinning just under the ceiling, tumbling through the air in their dining room before she caught it again, fingers gaining confidence with each toss.
"Albert Jennings?" James asked idly, but she wasn't fooled. She smiled at her older brother, as he headed toward the garden door. He paused and sent her a dark look, and she nodded. "What did he do?"
"Nothing much James, I'll take care of him," she replied, dancing around the long mahogany table, tossing the blade like a baton above her head.
"Jaime Elise Moriarty, WHAT DID HE DO?!" James yelled, his left hand clutching the doorknob, eyes bright, jaw clenched. Jaime caught the blade and stilled, settling her feet and facing her brother.
"He attempted to touch me after I told him no. I left him pissing himself on the street corner outside his house," Jaime answered, eyes locked with her brother's. She would always answer him. He was her brother, her savior, and she would keep nothing from him.
"How did he touch you?"
Jaime shivered, and ruthlessly banished the reaction to his question. She breathed in deep, and recited the facts, calmly and complete.
"We exited the bus on the corner, and he stopped me from walking home by putting his hand on my shoulder. I told him to let go, as the street was busy and I didn't want to incapacitate him and draw attention. He asked me 'out'—"Jaime sneered and James quirked a brow—"and I told him no. I tried to walk away, and he pushed himself on me again, grabbing my hip. He asked me out again, and then tried kiss me, at which point I kneed him in the groin and elbowed him in the throat. He let me go, and I came home."
James was shaking his head, and he fell back against the door, clutching his stomach and laughing. Jaime shrugged, and went back to tossing her knife. The balance on it was truly divine, and the silver flashed brightly in the light from the chandelier. She wondered who made it, and tried to find a maker's mark, but the only thing on the blade was the promise her brother made to her in Irish. She smiled, and went back to dancing in the dining room, her blade her partner.
James stopped laughing, and waved a hand at her as he stepped out the door to the rear garden. Jaime watched through the tall windows, as her brother walked to the far end of the garden, where the iron fence barricaded their home from the alley. It was where James went often to speak to his contacts, as he was reluctant to leave her alone in the house when she was home. She could take care of herself, as the body count she had already at sixteen years could attest, but her brother was in charge, and she knew he loved her. She treasured his love, and let him manage his time and hers as he saw fit.
Jaime laughed as the blade came close to slicing her neck, her attention momentarily distracted by the dark shadow that beckoned to her brother as he approached the gate. James opened the gate, and the man stepped in the garden, and Jaime paused her dancing as she blinked in shock. The man, whom she could not see but for his tall, lean frame and dark black hair, had his hands on James' waist and was backing him slowly against the fence. Jaime snarled, the blade ready in her grip, and she charged the doorway, intent on killing the fool who dared to touch her brother.
She opened the door, and skidded to a stop, completely at a loss. Instead of trying to fight his attacker off, her older brother was wrapping his arms around the strange man's neck, lifting his mouth to be plundered and taken in a kiss that made every hair on Jaime's body stand on end. Her brother must have been enjoying himself, if the mewling cries she heard and the way he jumped up and wrapped his legs around the taller man's waist was any indication.
Jaime turned in a daze, and walked back in the house. She closed the door as quietly as she could, and walked out the dining room. She stood in the front hall, and thought about what she'd just seen. Sex to her was anathema; she had trouble even thinking the word. She knew she was broken in that regard, but she didn't care. Part of her knew intellectually that her brother was not as deeply affected by their torment at the hands of their stepfather, Lord Blackwood, but she'd never seen him express or act on any sexual need. She'd thought he was like she was, uninterested and removed from such an affliction as desire.
Jaime shook her head, and slipped the blade into the thigh sheath that had come with it for her birthday. She walked to the front door, and grabbed her leather jacket. She walked out the front, making sure to hide the blade on her thigh and reassuring herself she had her gloves and mobile phone.
If she could not understand her brother's decision to engage in sexual acts, then she would focus on what she did understand.
Killing.
There was a very rude and disgusting young man at the corner who needed a lesson in how to talk to a woman, and Jaime Moriarty was very good at teaching men to fear her. Whether he lived or died depended on how sweetly he begged for forgiveness.
Hyde Park—London
Current Day, Same Day as Bombings
"Christ Greg, you look horrible! Who the hell released you from the hospital?" John yelled as they met the DI at the southern gates of Hyde Park, the whole area covered in police vehicles.
Sherlock didn't pause, as John and Lestrade talked to each other on the stone pathway. Sherlock dodged the men, following the path, the whole area cordoned off with yellow tape and uniformed officers standing along the route to the interior.
Sherlock pulled up his mental maps of the Park, and reasoned from the direction he was heading that wherever the body was, it was at the concert gazebo used for summer performances. He took the path in long strides, and noted the curious gazes of the officers along the way, men whose eyes widened in recognition as he passed. His days of anonymity were long gone; no longer could he pass on the streets of London without someone knowing who he was, and what he did. It would make his work harder to accomplish, but there were times in came in handy. Such as now, as no one dared to impede his progress.
The path weaved through the beech trees, the giants bare of leaves, and their bark dark and smooth. They appeared skeletal even in the noonday light, and Sherlock dismissed the chilly ambiance as human fallacy.
John and Lestrade were a few feet behind him, talking about the bombing that morning, but Sherlock was barely listening, too focused on the crime scene. He left the company of the beeches behind, and stopped on the edge of the square in which the gazebo rested in the center. John and Lestrade stopped too, and thankfully stayed silent, letting him observe without needing to filter them out.
He could smell the blood, even this far away. The breeze was minimal, but present enough to saturate the air with the metallic and cloying scent of spilled blood, in large quantities. The sun streamed through the cloud cover, and Sherlock eyed the stone pavers before he placed each foot, looking for evidence. Lestrade must have ordered the area to be cleared, since everyone was on the lawn around the square, watching him. Sherlock held up a hand, and John and Lestrade stayed back as he moved ahead one step at a time.
He was about ten feet from the large stone steps that led into the gazebo, when he paused. He breathed in through his nose, holding the scents, thinking. There was the faintest of hints of something, something he should know. He closed his eyes, and tried again, running through the mental catalogue he held in his Mind Palace, but nothing jumped out at him. He filed the scent away, letting his subconscious search for an answer, and turned his higher thought processes back to the immediate scene.
From where he stood, he could see up onto the floor of the gazebo, and the slim figure hanging from the thick white ropes. A woman, mid-twenties, naked and killed in the binds. The death-stroke was observable from where he stood, her head leaning backwards, the glint of bone visible through the thickened blood on her neck. The crimson fluid was less dried and more frozen; as the sun moved across the scene, it began to melt, dripping, the liquids separating, the blood breaking down. Her hair stuck to her shoulders and chest, the ends soaking wet while the crown and upper face were free of blood.
Minimal thrashing. She was hanging for only a couple of minutes when he sliced her neck. Her wrists and ankles bear next to no markings, aside from what's caused by the ropes holding her up. She could have been drugged, or restrained another way before she was hung from the ceiling.
Sherlock moved to the steps, carefully placing one foot at a time, noting the complete lack of detritus and dirt that should be present on any surface exposed to the elements. He knelt, and pulled out his miniature magnifying glass, and held it over the step above the one he was on. There were smooth, even grooves on the stones, and he smiled.
Killer swept the stone before he killed her. Removed trace evidence. No point in sweeping AFTER she was dead, the blood would be everywhere.
He stood, and took the last step, entering the gazebo, its shadow falling over him, the icebox chill sinking through his Belstaff. He could feel the cold even through the soles of his shoes, and his breath frosted in the darkness. He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the dichotomy of light and shadow.
The blood under the body was a wide, thick pool, still frozen, the sun high enough the slant of light barely touched the edges of the main section. It ran in rivers along the seams in the tiles, alternating between clean thin lines and pooled, rounded edges. It crept across the floor, and stopped not far from where he stood.
There were footprints in the blood, but not many, all identical. The minimal tracking made it clear that the killer knew what he was about, and what he was going to do next. Most frenzied killers were everywhere on their kill sights, indecisive and leaving their marks on everything, from smears to smudges and streaks of blood. This killer was different; he was in complete control.
He stood in front of her and sliced her neck, he would have been covered in blood. The footprints are smooth, the lines clean. He was wearing something on his feet, something to cover his footprints but not leave behind tread marks. Smart, very smart. The path he took was only meant to let him mark her body, and it was done quickly, from the way the blood filled the footprints as he moved around her. If he had taken more time, the blood would have frozen around his prints, and not moved into the marks as he lifted his feet.
The marks are clean, expertly delivered on her skin. Blade was tipped downwards, to avoid blood discharge from the blade point as he cut. He controlled everything here; even where the drops of blood would fall. Only the killing stroke left castoff on the wall.
Sherlock moved in another step, and kept his feet off the blood and footprints. He peered at the wall, evaluating the angle of the castoff on the stone column nearest the body, the height and distance from the corpse.
He was about my height. Feet slightly larger. Maybe half an inch taller, no more. Muscular enough to cut that deep in one attempt.
Sherlock held up his own hand, and moved fast, cutting across the air as the killer must have done across her throat, holding the imaginary blade at the end of its swing, thinking hard.
Whispering came to him, and he lowered his arm, realizing that John and Lestrade were at the base of the steps, watching him. Sherlock looked back to the body, and followed the ropes up, where they hung amongst the pulley system used for sound stage equipment. He moved slightly, and tilted his head.
Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and he inched in, centimeters from the blood, attention held by what he was seeing above him.
"John, Lestrade," Sherlock called out softly to the men behind him. He heard them move carefully up the steps, and they bracketed him on either side. Sherlock pulled out his mobile, not once removing his eyes from the ceiling. "I know why she died here, of all places."
"Why here, then?" Lestrade asked, watching his face. Sherlock lifted his mobile, and took a picture, the flash illuminating the shadows above them.
"Look," Sherlock sighed, and dropped his mobile, eyes tracing the Devil that seemed ready to pounce on them from where it crouched over their heads.
"Oh my God," John breathed, putting a hand to Sherlock's shoulder.
The Devil, cloven hooves and horns, with expansive wings and vicious claws, snarled down at them from the stone in which it was carved. The ropes framed the demon, white bands that encircled the creature carved from the depths of a Gothic nightmare. Sherlock paused, pulling up the mental design maps for the park, and smiled briefly. This structure was once called the Devil's Grotto, decades before. It now held a foolish name, something less on the spot, something idiotic that Sherlock couldn't stand to remember, much less retain.
"She died under the gaze of the Devil. He found another monster to watch him work," Sherlock whispered, and lowered his gaze to the ruined form of flesh and blood.
"God, he's insane, isn't he?" Lestrade gasped, and Sherlock spared him a glance, rolling his eyes.
"Serial killers are by definition not sane, Lestrade. This one is indeed insane…..and now predictable. He wants an audience—another monster to admire his work. This here," Sherlock gestured to the macabre display in front of them, "is for the monster above, as much as it is for us."
"We find the next monster he wants to see him work, we find him." Sherlock grinned, enjoying the game.
Hyde Park—London
The Devil's Grotto
Sherrinford stood still under the beech tree, its thick branches hiding him well enough from the police nearby. James lounged against the great trunk, hands in his pockets, both men watching the detective, the DI, and the doctor as Sherlock exercised his skills.
"Taking a bit of a risk with this, aren't we?" James asked casually, chewing on a shockingly pink piece of gum that smelled like watermelon. He blew a bubble, and snapped it, grinning at Sherrin.
"They aren't paying any attention what so ever, my dear boy. We have nothing to worry about."
"I love the outfit," James giggled, one hand tugging on the dark Belstaff that Sherrin wore.
"How better to blend in at a crime scene that has Sherlock in attendance, than to dress like him? Playing down our similarities would cause more comment than actually looking like him," Sherrin mused, watching with interest as Sherlock found almost right away the reason why Sherrin chose the Devil's grotto for his latest muse.
"I admit to having to look twice, the resemblance is….unnerving," James grumbled, blowing another bubble.
Sherrin laughed, confident in the distance between himself and his youngest sibling. He shook his head, and bowed to his young companion, making James smirk and snort with laughter of his own.
"Stop it, you monster. I'd rather not run from the coppers, too damn tired. Shush!" James giggled as Sherrin arched a brow at him, exactly as Sherlock would to John, and Sherrin rolled his eyes. Playing his little brother was ridiculously easy.
His mobile vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out, a gloved finger highlighting the text. Sherrin laughed again, a deep, pleased sound that drew James' attention.
"What is it?" James asked, pushing off the tree.
Sherrinford grinned, a deep satisfaction filling him. His plans, and James' were moving ahead on time and schedule, and now, for a bonus, his guest was finally coming around.
Sherrin held the mobile so James could see, and the young man snorted, laughing again, his manic eyes glowing with a strange joy. Sherrin grinned, and offered his arm to the shorter man. James took it, and together they marched away from the square and the lovely, empty corpse, leaving behind his brother.
"Come, my dear boy, our guest is finally awake. My last weapon in our game can now be put in play."